


Heat of the Moment

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, omegajolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:17:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is an omega, yet somehow he's failed to plan ahead for the possibility of heat during revolution. It's safe to say that the revolution will have to wait, now, and in the meantime Les Amis are happy to care for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flash

**Author's Note:**

> For the Kink Meme prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11667.html?thread=1660563#t1660563

He'd felt the first stirrings early in the previous evening, but he'd ignored them. He had more important things to do than tend to something as trivial as a tingle in his gut, a slow sweat building on his brow.  
  
There was something to be said for an omega to be leading the revolution. Enjolras was more than determined, surrounded day and night by alphas much more physically strong than he can ever hope to be- even Jehan was bigger than him, and he was downright tiny for an alpha male. He could never pose as one of them and he'd never tried. His pale, slender body gave him away, his large eyes, but that made no difference to him. He was fighting two battles at once. One was, of course, for France- the other for omegas.  
  
They would be taken seriously, he says,  _he_  will be taken seriously, and it all depends on his meticulously planned revolution.  
  
Which is coming to fruition right about now. The barricade has been constructed, and his friends, his brothers in arms, all sleep with guns in their arms on this side of the rickety wooden structure. Courfeyrac stands watch, peering warily over the top, and he, Enjolras, paces the length of it restlessly.  
  
At dawn, it's more than likely they'll be under attack.  
  
He dwells on this with a grim set to his mouth, his arms folded behind his back. Grantaire gives a gurgling snore as he passes, bottle tipped precariously in his hand where he's propped up against the brick of the wine shop that he'd been more than happy to plunder once the hard work was done.  
  
Glancing up again at Courfeyrac, exhausted at his post, he's just about to call to him to suggest he get some rest when it happens.  
  
His gut lurches. His knees very nearly buckle beneath him. The heat that's been slowly building in his core the whole night long, that he so dreads each month, floods through him all at once. A startled groan leaves his lips- and just like that, the stillness is broken.  
  
The smell of an omega in heat permeates their makeshift camp, much to his dismay, and one by one the amis are stirring. Gods, this couldn't be any more mortifying.  _Enjolras_  in heat, Enjolras the epitome of self-control reduced to a flushed and weak-kneed submissive as biology demanded of him. Normally he would have planned extensively ahead for this- he'd always kept careful tabs on his heats, knew exactly what days they would effect him, and managed to lock himself away before he could put himself at risk.  
  
But now everyone is staring at him, their leader, clearly incapacitated, and he can do nothing but stare wide-eyed back at them in a frozen state of shock.  
  
And then he feels without looking the rush between his legs, the fabric suddenly clinging to his inner thighs, and  _whimpers_  as his groin throbs with need. Even Grantaire has woken, staring at him blearily, his nostrils flared at the overwhelming scent of arousal that had them all staring in an odd cocktail of horror and instinctive lust.  
  
Even through the haze descending over his mind, he can feel the revolution crumbling around him before it's even begun.


	2. The Guide

 

Combeferre was the first to act.

The bespectacled man sweeps forward and wraps an arm around his waist, hardly breathing as he leads him into the building. Dimly, Enjolras was glad - of all of his comrades, Combeferre possessed the most admirable self-control, second only to Feuilly and heaven knows that he couldn't be spared right now. Not, of course, that he was  _afraid_ of the others, who might yank his trousers down and take him, wet and aching, on the spot-

(not, of course, that he was hoping)

\- but at least Combeferre had a cool head. Enjolras would trust his judgement. He would make an excellent leader, in his place-

He starts to say so, but Combeferre has jumped ahead of him and is already making his first order.

"Take it down," he calls calmly as he leads Enjolras away. "Deconstruct the barricade. The people will not be rising today." He barely gets a glimpse of the uncertain expressions on his friend's shell-shocked faces before he is forced over the threshold.

" _What?"_  Enjolras stops dead once the words have filtered through, still quivering, staring at his second-in-command in horrified incredulity. Combeferre's lips thin and he tugs him, more insistent now, guiding him past walls lined with bottles and towards a rickety flight of stairs in the back. Betrayal strikes Enjolras dumb and he struggles weakly, torn between his body's primary urges (even Combeferre is beginning to look like a promising candidate, and his eyes fall to the belt cinched tightly around his waist) and the burning desire to throttle him for suggesting such a thing. He has to act,  _now,_ to reverse the ridiculous order-

"The people will not come for a leader who is incapacitated, Enjolras," he says as evenly as he can, breaking Enjolras' reverie. The narrow stairway feels cramped and hot, more so than it should even in June as Enjolras' scent overwhelms them both. He's never felt more vulnerable and humiliated. To make matters worse, this speech sounds rehearsed, and he has to wonder now if Combeferre had been better prepared for this possibility than he had. This is not how he had imagined the morn of his long-awaited revolution. "You are the force behind the movement," Combeferre continues, nearly gritting his teeth against the tension thickening his throat and tightening his pants. "You are an inspiration. You words move the people, but your presence more so. If you are not on the barricades,  _they_ are not on the barricades. Would you have us all slaughtered?"

It's just logic, but Enjolras feels stung. "That is not true," he protests weakly, each step finding him more reluctant to give Combeferre his space. He leans heavily onto his guide, feverish, skin damp with sweat. He can feel his trousers sticking to his thighs uncomfortably, natural slick soaking into the fabric with each involuntary clench of the muscle. It's never been so difficult to concentrate through his heat before, but nor has he ever put himself in a position where he had to be in close contact with so many alphas, so young, at such a critical time in his cycle.

Swallowing, he tries again to reason, and his voice falters as he realizes that what Combeferre says is true. He cannot lead a revolution like this, not unless he wants his friend to witness him succumbing to the enemy in the most intimate of ways right there on the battlefield. "I- Combeferre, you are... you are perfectly capable. I have faith that you can-"

By the end of it he's nearly pleading, pathetic really, and the bespectacled man chides him firmly as they stumble together into the room at the end of the stairway. "Enjolras." He claps a hand on his shoulder before giving him a light shove, pushing him down onto a bed in the darkest corner of the room. The omega (that is what he's been reduced to, isn't it, just his sex, his biology, damn it-) falls back willingly and restrains himself (barely) from catching Combeferre's wrist and dragging him down with him. Several moments of fumbling and rustling later the other man manages to light a candle, setting it on the nightstand not a foot away and letting it burn low. He smiles, concealing his worry.

"This does not mean the end," he promises, although they're empty words, the most frustrating Enjolras has ever heard. It could be months, even years, before they have another opportunity like this one - and Combeferre knows as well as he does that if they do not take advantage of this one they may never be young and sharp enough again, not to rouse the people nor to lead them. They are in their prime and France needs them  _now_ but in this low light he can see the tension lingering in Combeferre's shoulders, no doubt a symptom of his proximity to an omega in heat, and a tug in his lower gut makes him take a deep breath, licking at his lips nervously.

It is not a decision so much as an instinct when he reaches, tentative, to grasp the Combeferre's wrist and draw him nearer. Dazed, it takes the other man a moment to realize- and by then it's too late, he's been drawn in, stumbling into Enjolras' lap. "Enjolras," and there's a faint note of panic that Enjolras will apologize profusely for later, but not now, not when he's got his fingers bunched in the other man's waistcoat doing his best to pop the buttons right off, breath coming in deep through his nose as the raw scent of alpha. ( _but it's Combeferre!_ the rational side of his mind protests before the lust shoves it back again) "Enjolras, you aren't well-!"

He has no patience for Combeferre and his caution right now, fingers curling into short hair and yanking him down into an openmouthed kiss. This all comes naturally, which he shouldn't be surprised by but then he's rarely indulged himself in desires of the flesh, because France comes before intimacy but  _oh,_ there's his tongue, and Combeferre's hands have gone slack where they were pushing against his chest as he groans into his mouth helplessly. There are a few moments of groping and frantic kissing, while Enjolras struggles to press as close to the alpha as possible, a hardness pressing to his thigh and eliciting another rush of wetness between his thighs. He breaks away with a gasp, hands flying down to Combeferre's belt.

The other man freezes immediately, hisses through his teeth, stops responding altogether and Enjolras takes it back.  _This_ is the most frustrated he's ever been. The heat has heightened his senses and clouded his judgement, and Patria, while not forgotten, has become a second priority. His hands follow, something else that he will have time to be ashamed about later, but Combeferre is not having it. He disentangles himself and dusts himself off, more than a little flustered. Enjolras doesn't think that he's ever seen his guide so far from composed. Bright spots of color linger high on his cheekbones and warmth radiates from him, feeding the fire raging in Enjolras' blood.

"Please," he murmurs, staring up at him without much hope. Combeferre just shakes his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he steps back towards the door.

"No- Enjolras- I must- I must supervise the others," he stammers, retreating, calling behind him as he goes. "I will send someone to- care for you."

And then Enjolras is alone again in the sputtering candlelight, lying back with a groan, left to wonder who exactly Combeferre thought would be of any help to him now.


	3. The Center

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god fuck everything do you have any idea how much grief this gave me. I give up. Just have it now, I don't even want to TRY to think up a decent ending to this chapter okay.

A few minutes pass in utter silence, candlelight flickering and weakly illuminating the room. Enjolras begins to cool down once the scent of alpha has dissipated. He's still too hot - his heat remains unsatisfied - but this he is used to, and his fingers barely shake as he unbuttons his red coat and shrugs it off, letting it fall to the floor at the foot of the bed. 

Now that he can breathe again he has a chance to take in his surroundings.

He's never had reason take up lodgings over a tavern or a wine shop, and now he is glad. The room is cramped and smells faintly of dust and spirits. (It reminds him of Grantaire and then he fights a groan; _Grantaire_ is an alpha too, and he's definitely scented him by now, and Lord it would be so easy to tempt that particular alpha to his bed) The candle helps, but very little, and he is about to sit up to take further notes when the heat flares again in his gut, burning him up inside and alerting him of his visitor before he even hears his tread on the stairs.

“Bonjour, Enjolras!” comes a cheerful voice, and his trousers are too tight again, his cock rubbing uselessly against the fabric of of them. He quirks an eyebrow warily as he comes into view, familiar cheeky smile in place.

“Courfeyrac,” he replies, pleased that his voice remains as even as he likes it to be. The desperation can only be kept at bay for so long, he knows, but still it is nice to know he is in some control of himself. For now. In any case, he knows that he still smells like sweat and probably sex, and the dishevelment Combeferre had left him to had yet to be rectified. “I am sorry you have to see me this way.”

There can be no doubt of Combeferre's reasons for sending Courfeyrac, of all of them. Aside from his selfless nature, his center was famous (or perhaps infamous) for his area of vulgar expertise. He may be an alpha but he remains unbonded and far from sad about it. Furthermore, he _trusts_ Courfeyrac. The three of them are a perfect unit, and while Combeferre might not be suitable for this endeavor Courfeyrac certainly was. Relief washes over him in a relaxing wave.

That's not to say that Enjolras approved of his friend's intentions. It's also not to say that he approves of how Courfeyrac had gone about garnering his knowledge. But he has few options, and with the national guard most likely still on the prowl, he cannot afford to let his heat ride itself out the way he might on any normal month.

“It is my pleasure.” Cocking his head, Courfeyrac widens his grin as he looks him over. He is unabashed in his scrutiny, dragging his eyes down and up again, like phantom hooks that catch in Enjolras' oversensitive skin and _tug_ and he shivers despite himself, a fresh flush rising to his cheeks. His own eyes are now free to roam as they will, as they normally wouldn't – he notes that Courfeyrac's cravat is missing, as is his coat, and he moves with the lithe grace of a cat to kneel before the chief. It's a kind gesture, reminding him of who he is and that despite his vulnerability now, despite what might be said and done in the coming moments, their relationship will not be affected.

“You must take care of yourself, dear Enjolras,” he chides, leaning forward on his elbows as Enjolras shifts uncomfortably above him and stares down. His eyes are dark, and he grasps his knee to squeeze it purposefully. “And if you won't, then I suppose the job falls to me, doesn't it?”

“I am not a child to be coddled,” he warns, his voice huskier than he might have liked. Alarm bells _should_ be sounding in his head about now. They would be any normal day, accompanied by an immediate, most likely violent protest, but his chest is tight with unwanted lust and he is far from clear-headed right now. There is no shame in this, he reminds himself, although he feels it burning in his cheeks anyways as another rush of heat leaves the back of his pants ruined.

“And I will not treat you like one.” Courfeyrac's voice is lower now as well, his eyes nearly black, his nostrils flared as Enjolras' scent slams into him like a wave crashing over his head. He slides up beside him without further adieu, a hand on Enjolras' chest, pressing him back gently.

He trusts Courfeyrac, he tells himself again. Not that he can bring himself to be all that nervous. He trusts him, and he is one of his closest friends, and surely the next time they are all gathered in the Musain together neither of them will be thinking about the obscene noise he makes when Courfeyrac is straddling his thighs and helping him out of his trousers, a hand lingering on his leaking cock.

“Lord, you are ready for me aren't you,” the other man breathes, not at all apologetic about the uncouth wording, and Enjolras gives him a Look which is severely inhibited by the way his legs have spread themselves entirely of their own volition.

His curly hair hangs as he leans forward and slides a hand up to cup the leader's jaw, stealing a kiss before Enjolras even understands what it is he wants. He blinks, finds his eyes closing – this is not how he had imagined kissing to be, not that he had ever imagined kissing Courfeyrac before specifically. It's significantly softer than he'd expected any of tonight's activities to be, overtaken by heat and surrounded by a majority of unbonded alphas. But Courfeyrac seems to know well enough that virginity is something he takes rather seriously, and to abstain from chastity altogether would be a crime.

Eventually, however, his body's needs make themselves known. Loudly. Courfeyrac shifts over him, hand sliding achingly slowly down the length of him and he gasps and whines into his mouth like a wounded animal. A flash of surprise steals over the Irishman's face before he's smiling again, drawing away to make quick work of his own clothing. It's strewn in a haphazard pile with Enjolras' on the floor, forgotten as they proceed.

“There is no need to be so tense,” he observes as he slides down Enjolras' body, pushing his thighs apart. Slick trails from his entrance, thick and slippery and Courfeyrac drags his fingers through it with a low noise, obviously restraining himself. His lips find the head of the golden man's cock before he can make any reply.

And after that, words really are useless, anyways.

Enjolras is continually surprised by his own reactions, and he wonders a little ruefully if he might have been more prepared for this had he spent one or two of his heats in the arms of a lover instead of stamping down the urge month after month for the past six years. Joly's nervous suggestions and Combeferre's disapproving looks are beginning to make a lot of sense. Every touch overwhelms him now, a jolt of lightning through his veins. It's hot, so hot, too hot, pulsing from the center of him outward and he gives a strangled noise he wasn't aware he was capable of making when Courfeyrac presses two fingers up between his legs.

Fingers, he knows from shameful, desperate experience, are not enough to satisfy one's heat. Nor are they a satisfactory distraction. Even when they are not his own, they only serve to exacerbate the inferno raging in the pit of his stomach, and his cock twitches pitifully up into Courfeyrac's mouth, another pulse of wet covering the other man's hand.

To Courfeyrac's credit, he does not tease. He takes no longer than necessary stretching Enjolras open around his fingers and replacing them with the thick, flushed head of his cock. From his vantage point, and through a haze of red heat, Enjolras watches as Courfeyrac braces his hands on either side of his chest below his arms and tilts his hips forward, the length of him slowly sheathing itself in tight, hot, omega-scented pressure.

“Enjolras,” he manages, thrusting forward shortly until they are connected, skin to skin, hips to hips, and that painful stretching right _there_ , just for the briefest moment, that will become his knot. Enjolras shudders at the thought of it, the idea of his swollen base holding him open, locking them together as they rut and he unravels beneath him. He feels rather like an animal, unrestrained and uncontrolled and Courfeyrac will hopefully take the reigns because he has lost his grasp on his vocabulary. “Lift. Lift your hips.”

A flurry of mumbled curses follows as Enjolras does his best to obey. He's unaccustomed to taking orders but this comes naturally to him, and he wants to drown in the subsequent flush as he realizes that once again, biology is dictating his behavior.

The fact that the pressure of Courfeyrac filling him is so welcomed, so relieving, is only more proof of the same undeniable fact. He doesn't care much anymore. His arms wind themselves around the Irishman's neck, pulling him down to press their bodies flush together with a breathy moan. He feels younger and more alive than he ever has, the cloud of lust settling into his bones, aching, making him move – slowly at first, faster as he gains some confidence or perhaps just loses his inhibitions entirely – against him in jerky, gasping thrusts and whimper words he will regret later.

Well, perhaps not regret. But he will be embarrassed. He can only hope that Courfeyrac will not torment him later.

It is probably safe to say that he won't, considering the things he has said in return. As crass as Enjolras feels he is being ( _deeper, harder, I beg of you, Courfeyrac!)_ he simply can't match the vulgarity of Courfeyrac's vocabulary.

The alpha has him bent nearly in half, gripping his hips as gently as he can manage when his knot has swollen uncomfortably and all he can smell is _Enjolras_ and the urge to mate, to bond, is so strong he could choke on it. Sweat is beading on his forehead and his eyes are hooded, darker than ever as they stare down at him. “I do hope this is helping,” he says faintly, cheeky smile present if strained. Enjolras is writhing beneath him, his back arched so far off of the mattress that he's barely touching it and he begs for more in a desperate sob that makes Courfeyrac think that he probably can't hear himself.

“Please- ohgoodLord, please, please-” He sucks in a sharp breath, feeling his orgasm rise, tightening the muscles in his thighs and _elsewhere_ and Courfeyrac drives down with a startled grunt, as he's never taken an omega in _heat_ before and good Lord is _right-_ “Please, I want it, I need it-”

It takes him a few erratic heartbeats to understand what he's saying, but Enjolras pushes back on his cock insistently and it clicks. A helpless moan catches in his throat. His knot nudges at his at his entrance, begging to be allowed it's purpose and it's everything he can do to refuse. A bond is permanent, and he can't risk it- wouldn't do it when Enjolras was so clearly devoid of his good judgement, pale and beautiful and covered in an attractive sheen of sweat beneath him. He can't. He reminds himself sternly of this fact and, with enormous effort, he gives a tight, “No, Enjolras-” before the omega is keening, is coming, is clutching him close and attempting to thrust back weakly once more and he gives a thrust of his own before the orgasm is pulled from him by the hot, trembling force of him, collapsing against him with a deep groan.


	4. The Doctor, The Poet and Marius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There wasn't going to be smut in this chapter but Jehan... *sigh* He got away from me.

By the time Courfeyrac is decent again, Enjolras is as well. He tries to apologize, stammering a little on the words, for once aware of just how virginal he is - and how far he'd fallen in the hours preceding - but Courfeyrac is having none of it, and kisses him pointedly on the lips before bidding him adieu. He leaves with a grin to oppose Enjolras' frown, and again he is alone. Not for long.

He barely has time to reorganize his thoughts and come to terms with his own actions (something that's near impossible when the heat is still raging through his veins, making him dizzy at times) before Joly is bustling in with a pail of water and a rag. Behind him is Marius still smelling of gunpowder, and behind _him_ is Jehan with a wilting flower in hand, which he offers to a bemused Enjolras the moment he can squeeze into the cramped space.

"For you. I know this must be difficult. But you are always up for a challenge, are you not?" He smiles radiantly and the chief merely nods, not trusting himself to speak with the double scent of alpha making the air heady and thick to breathe. Joly notices right away, and orders the others sternly to the corner.

"I'll be hard pressed to help him at all if you insist on crowding him!" he cries, waving his hands about frantically. Water sloshes in the pail and a droplet slides down Enjolras' arm; he's surprised that it doesn't sizzle, evaporate right there, for his skin is burning and too-tight and he would give anything to bring an end to it now. He opens his mouth to say so, managing only a clipped phrase before choking off again.

"Ah- Joly, my friend, I apologize-"

"Oh, sit down." The young doctor looks to be restraining himself from rolling his eyes. He pressed his friend down with a hand on his shoulder, a contact that has Enjolras pliant beneath him, taking a deep breath through his mouth. Marius peeks at him in a morbid sort of curiosity from the corner, face twisting. He can only imagine the sight he makes, leaning into the rag Joly is using to wipe the sweat from his brow with his lips parted and his eyes fluttering closed. A debauched omega, desperate for more. That his coupling with Courfeyrac hadn't solved the problem bothered him immensely and humiliated him in equal parts.

"How long does it last?" Pontmercy asks, almost nervous to speak directly at him. Enjolras, however, is not deaf and feels himself flushing as he composes himself enough to answer.

"For me, it has lasted up to five days." He takes another deep breath, steeling himself, and winces. Marius is a beta and, like most of his in-between brethren, tragically unaware of the dynamics of the other fifty sixty percent of the population. Enjolras would pity him, but he finds him exasperating at the best of times. He braces himself for more questioning.

"Five?" Marius sounds horrified, and Enjolras offers a grim smile, cracking one blue eye open to look at him. "That's insanity! How do you work?"

Normally he would be pleased to hear the burgeoning respect in Pontmercy's voice, but at the moment he's distracted by Joly's nimble fingers as they prod and test, sliding over his skin expertly for any damage. Any contact, any at all, is far too much for him to handle right now. Even from an alpha who'd already been bonded. He'll admit, Joly and Bossuet have an odd relationship - it seems a fluke of nature that they were bonded to the same woman, and yet they acted as if it were a blessing, an indulgence. Bossuet would probably allow him, too, if it would do him any good.

But it won't. They both know it won't. Heat was a mating call, and Bossuet and Joly were both happily deaf to it now. Enjolras would have to suffer alone.

Not alone, though. He replies to Marius with a strain in his voice. “I am hard pressed to think of work at the moment, my friend.”

Or anything other than Joly, leaning over him, palms against his flushing skin-

“I must offer my apologies,” the alpha says, smiling weakly and continuing his ministrations. “I am only being thorough.”

“Was Courfeyrac not the answer, then?” Jehan, having been unusually quiet, finally makes his presence known again with a thoughtful remark. He hums under his breath, eyes bright – if Enjolras didn't know him better he would have thought his heat was the cause, but it seemed more likely some song in his head, or an imaginary romance. Lord knew that Prouvaire had probably invented him a thousand patrons in his mind, to kiss him and to temper his severe nature. He was a romantic and Enjolras could forgive him for it, was fond of him actually – but now he is eying him with a contemplative look and he dreads to answer him.

“Apparently not,” he mutters, lowering his eyes. Joly steps away and he inhales deeply in relief as he is given the room. Marius is fidgeting still, obviously growing uncomfortable.

“Well, he treated you well – though with Courfeyrac you must expect to be left with a mark,” Joly says, a small smile gracing his mouth as he dips down to soak the rag in water. “Shall I swipe away the remnants, or would you wait until the heat has passed?”

Though he was loathe to put himself back into that position, Enjolras nodded – the stickiness left behind by his coupling was beginning to dry uncomfortably between his legs and, indeed, he felt filthy. “Now is as good as ever.”

“Brave as ever, Enjolras” Marius proclaims, almost awed. He fights the urge to roll his eyes, especially when he continues, “I could not imagine the temptation. Or perhaps I could... Cosette-”

“Marius, I cannot say I care,” he cuts him off tersely as Joly gently rolls him back and spreads his thighs. He feels like a helpless child and his frustrations are hardly appeased by Pontmercy's romantic rambling. _Jehan_ he might have accepted it from, but Marius-

“Marius, perhaps you ought to step out,” Joly says distractedly, his hand between Enjolras' thighs making it hard to think. He works with precise and thorough movements, the rag dripping onto the already-damp sheets, and perhaps he isn't as unaffected by the scent crawling over his skin as Enjolras had first assumed. “I think Jehan is better suited to help our fearless leader.”

The beta blinks, clueless. “I thought that moral support would be appreciated-”

“It's been appreciated. I will see you when I am well,” Enjolras grits out, his chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut. He doesn't need to watch Marius leave, listening to his hesitant footsteps disappear down the rickety flight of stairs to leave them to their business. And it is business, or else a favor between friends- he lets out a breath, deflating and arching up off the mattress.

“Jehan, then, I take it,” he says faintly, not daring to open his eyes. The cool cloth has disappeared and he still feels filthy despite it. Perhaps it is only his opinion of himself that has been stained. Courfeyrac's touch has still not faded and his skin tingles with the ghost of unhurried hands and mouth, of touch so intimate that he had never imagined or longed for before.

He still needs more.

This is, without question, the most humiliating thing he's ever been subjected to.

But now Jehan has drawn nearer and those dainty hands are smoothing down his ribcage, fingers splaying around his hips, as the poet lovingly caresses him. “I will be gentle,” he says, and Enjolras opens his eyes to glimpse a sweet smile before he turns and begins divesting himself of his clothing.

He is only dimly aware of Joly taking his bucket and his rag into the corner and sitting himself down in the chair previously sat before the desk, turning his eyes politely away. All he can feel is fire where Jehan had deliberately ignited his skin. He shudders, sitting slowly back up to watch as smooth skin is revealed and the tiny alpha – tiny by alpha standards, anyways, nearly as slender as Enjolras himself and it is a wonder that this gentle soul can even think to participate in such carnal activities when there are sonnets unwritten and words to be penned – turns again to greet him, sliding up on top of him like the most natural thing in the world.

It is the most natural thing in the world, exactly what nature wants of him, and he supposes he must succumb. The heat has not faded from his bones. Indeed, it seems deeper now, brighter and more feverish and he wants to draw Jehan in until his knot is locked inside of him-

He cringes at the realization that if this were anyone else, he might be in danger of actually succumbing.

Courfeyrac had spared him once – and he would thank him later, profusely. Jehan would surely do the same. Enjolras trusted his friends with his life, of course he did. Outside they were deconstructing the barricades that they had all planned to die upon with him if necessary. But to think that he could have been like this, been at the mercy of an alpha of the Guard-

The thought is severed when Jehan leans down, the end of his braid tickling his chest, and leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his neck.

Enjolras feels his jaw nearly unhinge as he tips his head back, gasping. His hands are on the poet's slim shoulders, pulling him insistently down as he'd done to Courfeyrac, but Jehan only smiles against his skin. Somehow it had never occurred to him that Jehan would be experienced in the art of lovemaking, but then, Jehan is a born lover, a selfless lover. Of course he would be in practice. Of course. Enjolras simply hasn't had the time to think about-

Again, he cannot think clearly like this. Jehan's hands are soft and teasing, lighting over every inch of skin he can reach, followed closely by his pink lips. In comparison, Courfeyrac had been a barbarian. Enjolras whimpers, his dignity having escaped through the floorboards some time ago, forgetting completely Joly's flame of a presence in the corner. Jehan is so close, so close, those lips brushing and sucking and closing around the head of his straining cock so velvet-smooth until his hips are bucking off of the bed with a breathless stream of profanity that he _must_ have learned from Grantaire or Bahorel-

“W-why not Bahorel?” he asks faintly, trying to maintain some organization of his thoughts. Jehan is bobbing his head down now and Enjolras can do nothing but stare down in helpless wonder, shivers wracking his heat-ravaged body, hardly expecting any answer. Joly calls from his seat.

“We thought we might spare you a rough night. Bahorel is... Ah...”

“Big,” Jehan supplies, coming up for air and leaving his length spit-slick and straining, suddenly aching for touch. How he knows this, Enjolras hardly cares right now. He groans and can't find it in him to make any disapproving comment, letting the smiling poet push him back again and cup his wet hole like it's a precious thing. “Would you allow me the pleasure, Enjolras?”

“Please,” he begs, his voice strained again, and if he is pathetic nobody mentions it.

He expected Jehan to love like an angel, like _he_ was an angel – and indeed the words streaming from his lips in a low, appreciative lyric are beautiful and hardly apply to such an obscene setting though he makes them anyways – and he is taken off guard when he is rolled into his stomach and entered with stunning force. Grunting, he tangles his fingers into the sheets and draws himself with difficulty up onto his knees as he's pounded into, each motion slick and smooth, aided by nature.

“Ahh, Apollo indeed, Grantaire is right to praise you so, you are beautiful always but especially like this,” Jehan sighs, his breath comforting against the blonde's back. He feels less of an omega with Jehan and more of a lover, perhaps even odder, but it is reassuring.

He is a person, more than what nature has defined him as, and his friends will think no less of him when this ordeal is over.

Feeling him relax beneath him, Jehan slows his pace, encouraging, “It is no sin to love, Enjolras, or be loved.” His thrusts are deep, aching, and his knot has begun to swell- it touches briefly to his hole and Enjolras writhes, trying to press back against it as he had before.

“Shhh shh shh,” and a kiss placed between his shoulder blades, and a hand has come around to stroke him to completion as he bucks and moans and begs incoherently and otherwise makes a fool out of himself. Humiliated tears prick at his eyes but Jehan, sensing his distress as he nears another desperate climax, soothes him with words of love cooed breathlessly into his ear as he holds his hip and guides him through to his release.

Enjolras collapses onto his stomach, a fresh coat of semen sticking to his front. He can't fin it in himself to care, now, gasping for breath and it _burns,_ it's not over- will it ever be? He wants to cry out in frustration, even with Prouvaire pulling him into his lap, those delicate fingers combing through his hair.

“I think that you may nearly be there.” Joly's voice is swimming before him, and if he could look through his tears he's sure there would be a thoughtful gleam in his eyes. “Once more, perhaps?”


End file.
